Chaos is a Ladder
by nowforruin
Summary: Heroes do stupid things and die. Jon Snow does especially stupid things. After so much loss, she doesn't know how she'll bear it if he dies too. What they're doing here, now, in her bed, that can only make it worse, but she doesn't care. It's too late. She might as well enjoy the pleasurable moments where she can.
1. Chapter 1

She isn't exactly surprised to find Jon Snow outside her door, his firm knock a poorly veiled cover for the uncertainty gracing his finely wrought features bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. But that's been the puzzle of him all along, hasn't it? This King of the North, with all of his father's loyalty and honor, softness in his eyes that belies his often harsh words.

He is not a politician. He speaks plainly. Oh, how she wanted to laugh sitting on the hard stone of Dragonstone's throne when he hadn't given a damn about any of her titles or the imposing gloom of the place – when he hadn't paused to consider all the terrible things she might visit upon him for speaking to her as he had.

Demanding things. Refusing, respectfully, your Grace, to bend the knee.

Except he had, eventually. First after nearly dying, after making her _watch_ as he nearly died being brave and idiotic, and then again in King's Landing, his bloody stupid honor nearly ruining everything. She'd wanted to murder him as much as she'd wanted things she really had no business wanting.

After all, when has a romantic entanglement ever done her any good? Her husband died. Jorah fell in love with her and nearly died trying to prove himself. Daario had been more trouble than he was worth, and in the end she'd felt nothing as she'd sailed away from him.

Daenerys Stormborn doesn't have time for Jon Snow – doesn't have time for the distraction, the political complication, the potential of him burrowing into her already fractured and clumsily patched heart.

She is the dragon. She doesn't concern herself with wolves.

She opens the door wider to allow him to pass.

He doesn't speak, even as the door closes and she backs up against it, letting him cage her in as his hands come to rest on the intricately carved wood. He isn't wearing the heavy furs tonight, despite the chill in the air, his shoulders less kingly. Oh, he's still the proud northern – she can practically see him battling his damned honor as he stares at her, hesitating even now with the inevitability of it all crashing down around them.

They shouldn't be doing this. They both know it. No good will come of it.

But there's no denying how desperately they want this. Both of them. Whether they should or shouldn't. Whether their allies and supporters and advisors would (will) curse them for it. Whether he makes her say things, talk about things, she swore to herself were in the past.

Whether he makes her question a fundamental fact about herself as a woman she's long known in her heart to be true with that hint of a smirk and far too casual question.

It doesn't matter. She's already opened the door, and he closes it.

A low, tortured groan leaves Jon's lips, and she thinks he's going to leave, thinks that after all the lingering glances and soft, intimate comments she never should have allowed him, Jon Snow will go back to his cabin and they will pretend this never happened.

He kisses her.

It isn't a soft or tentative thing. It is the wolf that lives in his blood surging forward with snapping teeth, the carefully banked and rigidly controlled passions of a man long used to keeping himself in line let loose in a torrent of demanding, urgent kisses. One of his hands falls to her waist, the other tangles in the long, silvery strands of her hair. Flame licks her skin as his hips press into hers, all the wool and leather and fur between them doing little to hide either of their desires.

It's a delicious torture, Jon's mouth on hers as he finds the complicated lacings of her dress. For a moment, she longs for the slippery silks and barely-there garments of the desert cities, but maybe this is better, here, now, with this man. The bruising force of that first kiss fades into something gentler but no less urgent, his bread scraping against her cheeks as his breath fans across her skin.

His eyes meet hers as he pushes open the dress, revealing nothing but bare skin beneath the soft fur lining. She wants to tease him for the catch in his breath, but no man has ever looked at her quite like this one. She was a prize for Khal Drogo. She was Jorah's queen to be worshipped. Daario wanted her body almost as much as he wanted the power that came with it.

Jon Snow, the bastard king, he looks at her like he knows she'll burn him alive and he's happy for it.

There's a slight tremble in his callused fingers as he eases her dress over her shoulders, the heavy material falling quickly to the floor with a soft rustle of fabric. He blinks as he takes her in, the struggle in his thoughts plain all over his face as his breaths race unsteadily on.

Perhaps she should wait, let him decide, but Daenerys no longer cares for honor in that moment. Maybe they'll regret this later. Maybe they're making a mistake that will cost them the war with the Night King. Maybe this entanglement will cost her the Iron Throne. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Jon can be the honorable one. He has enough for them both.

She steps forward, pressing into his body as she kisses him, her hands moving easily over the leather and wool he remains proudly wrapped in. He isn't wearing his sword, but there are still small knives and daggers strapped into the leathers, her fingers working to unfasten belts and straps. All the trappings of a northern warrior, one by one stripped off to reveal the man beneath. She isn't in a hurry now, taking her time removing layer after layer until he's standing naked in the lantern light, pale skin gleaming.

The ship rocking beneath their feet only highlights his attractiveness, muscles making barely perceivable adjustments to his balance, sliding smoothly under his skin as she drinks him in. His eyes scrape over every bit of her in return, the hint of a smile tugging at his oh so serious expression. She isn't a modest woman, but something in his appraisal leaves a flush in her cheeks.

Stepping out of the pile of his clothes, Jon draws her back into his arms, his hands making a leisurely exploration of her body. She might call it lazy, but it's too intentional. Pressure there, a whisper of a touch there, all of it slowly driving her mad, her body aching for more as they move toward her bed in drunken, stumbling steps.

He breathes out her name as they fall into the furs together, his palm on her cheek as she stretches her body over his, her skin feverish. She's told him not call her _Dany_ , told him it's what her brother once called her, but somehow she's come to crave it from his lips. Maybe it's the sneaking suspicion that he's thought of her so often privately that in his own mind, he knows her so intimately as to adopt the nickname as his own, or maybe it's just the way his lips caress the syllables, his voice low and on the verge of shattering.

It's quiet around them, the creak of the ship and the splash of the waves barely audible over the thrum of her blood in her ears. Under her palm, Jon's heart is racing, the still-healing scar livid and red in the lantern light. He tenses as she dips her head, her lips brushing over the harsh scars, and his hand comes to settle on the small of her back, fingers splayed wide to keep her pressed tight. He doesn't like this reminder of his vulnerability or the betrayal of his men – he's still never admitted the truth of it, despite her questions, despite her seeing the scars.

She won't ask again, but she does kiss them all, a silent sign of respect he'll just have to accept. There aren't many men she actually respects, never have been, but Jon Snow has earned that place, and she'll be damned if he doesn't know it, no matter how things play out between them after this – no matter how much she meant it when she told Tyrion she didn't want a hero.

Heroes do stupid things and die. Jon Snow does especially stupid things.

After so much loss, she doesn't know how she'll bear it if he dies too. What they're doing here, now, in her bed, that can only make it worse, but she doesn't care. It's too late. She might as well enjoy the pleasurable moments where she can.

He doesn't rush her, even as her lips travel lower, his breathing turning increasingly erratic. The hand on her back stays there, as though he's desperately trying to anchor himself to her, to whatever vestige of his control he's still grappling with, but the other wanders over the curves of her body, unraveling braids and tracing the swell of her breast down to her ribs.

But when she's finished, when she finally brings her mouth back to his, his arms band around her, all that hard muscle tensed against her soft skin. Desire flashes in his eyes before they slip closed, and his hand is in her hair as he kisses her again, his control faltering. She relishes that moment, pulling her head back just slightly for the pleasure of having him chase her.

His legs shift, his thigh slipping between hers, and his eyes snap open as she loses the rhythm of their kiss, all that hard muscle providing tantalizing friction and pleasure as she rocks against him. The hand on her hip tightens, his whole body tensing, but before he can move, before he can flip them over, she pushes against his ribs to keep him in place and kisses him again.

Daenerys isn't ready to give up her control just yet, isn't quite ready to end this cat and mouse game they've been playing. There's a heady pleasure in what they've doing now, the building lust and tightly coiled man beneath her. He doesn't seek power like so many of the other men she's known – he doesn't want her power. He doesn't want to control her. He doesn't want to leash her. Even now, even when he's trembling with restraint, and each touch betrays how badly he wants her, he lets her lead. Lets her decide.

But the moment she lessens the pressure on his side, the moment she pulls her weight just slightly off him, he flips her smoothly on her back. Whatever uncertainties he's struggled with, he's banished them, slipping between her parted thighs and burying himself deep in one thrust with such intensity it pushes them both up into the pillows.

It's all she can do to grab onto his arm, her palm sliding up onto his shoulder, fingers flexing as she moves with him, meeting each deep stroke, her back arching with the sheer pleasure of him. She can feel the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunch and stretch, every inch of his body honed for war and destruction he doesn't want but hurtles toward anyway.

It's as her eyes are slipping closed to banish the thoughts of blood and destruction that he pauses, waiting until her eyes meet his. This is the man who won't lie to save an alliance, and he won't even lie to himself. He looks down at her, their hips pressed tightly together, and everything he's thinking and feeling is on his face, plain as day – but among all the uncertainty, among that flicker of loathing for giving into this, she sees what Tyrion has been trying to tell her.

Jon Snow is in love with her.

It's almost as if he realizes it in the same moment she does, his eyes widening ever so slightly, but then he bends his mouth to hers without saying a word. Whatever lives in the deep brown of his eyes, whatever truths are carved into the line of his jaw, she doesn't see them as his teeth nip at her bottom lip, one palm rising to caress her breast as he resumes the slow, intense thrusts she feels in the tips of her toes.

He curses into her neck as she shifts beneath him, the angle driving him deeper. The rumble of his voice scrapes over her skin, and she reaches blindly for the bit of leather holding his hair back. This is what she wants, the epitome of what it is about Jon Snow that has intrigued her from the first – the honesty. The utter lack of artifice. The last layer of this man – the steel of his resolve, his mastery over himself, she wants it gone. She wants to see him as he sees her, nothing between them, wild and free as the creatures in their sigils.

His hair brushes against her cheek, his lips moving against the delicate skin of her throat as she arches back, exposing the column of her neck to his tongue and teeth. Everything around them tunnels down to her bed, the calluses on his fingers as he trails them over her, the liquid heat of his mouth on her skin, the drag and slide of him inside her until fire explodes in her veins.

They collapse into each other, a panting, sweaty mass of limbs. Jon's eyes are still closed as she pushes onto her elbow, her palm light on his chest for balance as she leans over him, an inexplicable urge to kiss him driving her forward. Not the kisses they've just shared, filled with urgency and desire sharp enough to cut, but something else. Something sweeter, slower. Something just for them and this quiet moment with most of the ship around them asleep, insulated from the troubles of war and kingdoms, her hair spilling over her shoulders and his chest.

He drags his thumb lazily down the curve of her spine as he returns her kiss, his palm flattening as he reaches the curve of her bottom, tucking her into his side with an almost possessive hold. She's surprised by that – she thought for sure he would close himself back off in the aftermath, that it wouldn't take long for him to fall into a brooding misery over giving into this. Instead he lets out a long, slow breath, muscles loose with contentment.

"I'll go if you like," he says quietly, his voice still rough. A measure of tension comes back into him as he says it, despite the soft drift of his thumb across her hip. "I can avoid being seen."

"Is that what you want?" It's an odd question for her to ask, but it comes easily enough off her lips. It would make things easier, she supposes, if they kept this to themselves, but Daenerys has long since stopped caring what other people have to say about what goes on in her bedroom. There are very few opinions that matter to her, but Jon's is one of them, so rather than simply inform him he'll be staying, she waits.

"Fuck no." The crass answer makes her smile, and one corner of his mouth curves in answer, his grip on her hip tightening. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't have to, as she curls into his side and he uses his free hand to pull the furs up around them.

It's only later, after they've slept, and woken, and tangled themselves together again that she swears she hears him mutter under his breath, an inexplicable admonishment to himself that sends a shiver down her spine for reasons she can't place.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._


	2. Chapter 2

Daenerys opens her eyes to find Jon sitting on the edge of her bed, trousers in place but little else. He's watching her, his expression etched with doubts and self-loathing, his hands clasped tightly together. At the angle he's sitting, every muscle in his torso stands out, tension radiating from him, but he doesn't say anything when she blinks into awareness. He merely meets her stare head on, and his eyes soften, his breath a quiet sigh.

"Save me the speech on regrets," she snaps before he can speak, hating how vulnerable she feels under that careful examination, hating that he so plainly despises himself for what they've done. Yes, she knew last night they were inviting trouble by giving into their desires, but he hasn't even washed the scent of her from his skin. He could at least do her the decency of being gone when she woke and spare her whatever brooding misery lays behind that sigh.

He jerks back as if she'd slapped him, his brows furrowing with confusion. "I don't regret one bit of it," he says slowly, quietly, and deep within her, the dragon settles, momentarily soothed. "Do you?"

"Of course not." It comes out more harshly than she intends, but she's still smarting from the unexpected blow of her emotional reaction. Giving into physical lust is one thing. Getting emotionally tangled with this man, a man she could fall in love with if she's not very, very careful, that won't do. It won't win her any of the battles she's yet to fight. It won't bring back her dragon. There is no future that way, with this bastard king.

Swept up in the storm of her own thoughts, she throws back the furs and rises, crossing to a trunk and drawing out a finely woven wool robe in a deep gray. It's gratifying to feel Jon's eyes on her the entire time, to turn back to face him after pulling the robe closed to find his eyes dark and a different sort of tension altogether in his body.

She ignores that between the soft white fur lining and the deep grey wool, she's in Stark colors.

Pausing to scoop up what's left of his discarded clothes from the floor, Daenerys drops them on the bed but remains standing in front of him. "You weren't wearing your sword when you came here," she says, gesturing to the pile of small weapons. "You should keep it with you, always." The words come on their own, not exactly with her permission, but there's something vulnerable about him sitting there on the edge of her bed, and she doesn't like the trickle of fear that creeps along her spine.

He nods, briefly glancing down at the daggers and leather. "Aye." He starts to reach for his clothes, but at the last minute, his fingers fall instead on her thigh. They slip quickly up to her waist, pulling her down into a kiss that melts the awkwardness between them in an instant. It's a kiss that explodes across her tongue, rattling her senses, and then it quiets, his thumb rubbing her jaw. He doesn't fully release her when the kiss ends, waiting for her eyes to open. "I don't regret anything about you."

Jon's voice has gone low again, gravely, his expression settling into its familiar lines of earnest seriousness. He seems to be waiting for her to react, so she nods, her own hand rising to brush his hair away from his face. He looks so much younger like this, his hair a dark mass around his face, his proud shoulders bare.

Until she looks down at the horrible scars littering his chest, a brutal reminder that they are not a pair of young lovers free to do as they wish. They are players in a deadly game. They've both died once already, whatever sort of death it was that took her into the flames and him into the icy embrace of steel before spitting them back out again.

His hands slip from her body as though he can sense the change in her mood, and Daenerys steps back, watching as he finishes dressing. She spots the bit of leather she pulled out of his hair last night as he tugs his boots into place, silently handing it to him when he looks up. It's the last touch of his facade, and when he stands and faces her, he is again King in the North.

Still, he hesitates before leaving, his brow furrowing as his legs shift to accommodate the rolling floor. "The seas are rising. A storm would be a bad bit of luck."

"I was born in a storm," she says without looking at him, her eyes on the gathering clouds outside her windows. It's a reminder she needs, this difference between them, their reactions to a perceived threat. What had she told Tyrion? Jon Snow is too small for her. She'd do well to remember it.

"I'll speak with Davos." He looks like he wants to say more, but with one last lingering look, he turns for the door and slips out, leaving her to her roiling thoughts.

She expects Tyrion to lecture her about her dalliance with Lord Snow, expects to be subjected to a list of all the ways in which it's a stupid thing to have done, the consequences she may have unleashed, the damage they've done, but he merely tips his glass of wine to her when she joins him at the rail. "I trust you slept well, your Grace," he offers, his eyes not leaving the horizon, voice muffled by the wine glass.

"It's none of your concern-"

"Oh, it's my concern. It's all of our concern, you see. That's what being queen means, your Grace." He does look at her then, the frank honesty she's come to value plain on his face. "But there was no hidden meaning in what I said. You look as if you've finally slept. That's a good thing."

Pain lances through her, sharp as the blade that took Viserion from the sky. She can hear his screams of agony echo off the rocks all over again, blood pouring from his side until the ice claimed him. With a shake of her head, she banishes the memory, her nails digging into the wooden rail, the wind biting into her fingers. She should be wearing gloves, winter's reach deepening the further north they travel, but she can't be bothered to go get them from her cabin. Not until she has herself firmly in hand once more, the overwhelming loss contained, will she turn away from the horizon.

But it is a bit of a shock to realize that Tyrion is right. She _did_ sleep, a deep, restful sleep she hasn't known for weeks. Her instinct is to brush it off as a mere physicality – whatever else may have passed between them, Jon Snow did plenty to tire her out. While perhaps not the most skilled of lovers, the intensity of his attentions easily made up for whatever finesse he may have lacked. He'll learn, in time, the things she likes.

"Ser Davos says we're in for a bit of weather."

Tyrion's voice breaks into her thoughts, sparing her the task of contemplating her seeming certainty that Jon will share her bed once more. "I am Daenerys Stormborn. Let it come."

He makes a noise that may be a snort or a laugh, perhaps something in between, but Tyrion only gestures to the ship's bow where Davos and Jon stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent together against the wind. Jon is once again clad in his heavy furs, the handle of his sword peeking out as he bends toward his advisor. "Shall we join them for the morning's war council?"

"No." She glances once more at the pair before turning her attention to the sky, the dragons wheeling far above, nearly lost in the gloom. "No, we've done what planning can be done for the present."

"That sounds perfectly logical, if one's goal were to avoid Lord Snow."

Her temper flaring, she turns her narrowed eyes sharply on her Hand. "I will not tolerate-"

Tyrion simply waves her off, tipping his wine glass back and emptying it. "No offense intended, your Grace, but the fact remains we've another several days' sail before we reach port, and this is not an overly large ship."

"And?"

"And you'll need to decide how you're going to proceed sooner or later. Avoiding the situation won't help matters."

"There is no _situation_."

"You are not naive, your Grace." Tyrion looks up at her, turning to lean his back against the ship's rail. "Your alliance is fragile. You need the north to defeat my sister and wrest the seven kingdoms back from her murderous hands. The north, as they are so fond of saying, remembers. What was it Davos told us on Dragonstone? Ah, yes, 'All those hard sons of bitches chose him as their leader.' Jon Snow is a good man, but swearing his allegiance doesn't make a lady's lapdog out of a wolf."

She doesn't respond, irritated that Tyrion continues to speak of Jon when she so clearly doesn't wish to discuss the matter. Like their talk of the succession, it's not an immediate concern. Tomorrow, they'll still be at sea, and it won't matter whether she's taken Jon to her bed or not. It will be nearly a fortnight before they reach Winterfell, and then longer still to plan their move against the Night King. Never mind that for all his talk of the north, Tyrion isn't a northerner. He may know his family, and he may know a great deal about the houses of Westeros, but he doesn't know everything.

"They're a proud people, Daenerys." Tyrion hesitates as though weighing his next words carefully before continuing, "His brother was once King in the North before him. Then he fell in love with a woman, an outsider. I believe you know how that tale ends."

She thinks of the scars on Jon's chest, the vicious knife wounds inflicted upon him by his own men, and suppresses a wince. Tyrion isn't telling her anything she hasn't already thought herself, but those are thoughts she's made a habit of shoving aside. "Do you have a point?"

He does. He's been hinting at something, edging toward it, all but saying whatever it is he wants to say when it comes to Jon Snow, but for whatever reason, Tyrion hesitates and then shakes his head. "No, I don't believe I do. If you'll excuse me, your Grace, I believe my glass is empty."

She nods, tacit permission to let the conversation go for the time being. She isn't in the mood to play at riddles with Tyrion, and were it another topic, she may have pressed him to explain himself, but she doesn't want to talk about this. Not with Tyrion. Not with anyone.

Jon is still standing at the bow when she glances over her shoulder, the rising wind slipping beneath her dress with icy fingers. She'll need to change into heavier clothes soon, the heavy white furs she wore to fly north waiting safely below, but she hasn't worn them since her return. Who knew a piece of clothing could hold so many memories?

He looks up before she can turn away again, and across the deck, their eyes lock. It's the strangest sensation, the stillness that moment brings, and for one breath, her mind is quiet.

Then Jon turns sharply toward Davos, as though the man has said something that angers him, and Daenerys looks away. She doesn't want to consider the implications of Tyrion's comments, nor does she want to consider how, exactly, they can move forward in a way that doesn't undercut her claim to the Iron Throne nor lead to another knife in Jon Snow's belly.

But that too is a problem for another day.

* * *

She avoids Jon easily throughout the day, spending the majority of her time with Missandei, but when night falls, she's alone in her room with the creaking of the ship and the crash of the rising seas.

It isn't exactly a surprise when Jon arrives, letting himself in with a soft, cursory knock. She raises one eyebrow at his impertinence, but doesn't rebuke him as he lets the door close and leans back against it. He's still in his furs tonight, the mantle heavy around his shoulders, sword on his hip.

The seas toss and rage outside, the pitch of the ship unpredictable, but it doesn't seem to bother him. Standing across the room, the swaying lanterns casting shadows over his face, Jon simply watches her for a breath, then another, as if waiting for some sort of permission.

He must find whatever he's looking for, pushing off the door and lifting off the heavy fur cloak. He lays it across a chair carefully, each of his actions deliberate, and then meets her stare once more as he reaches for the sword belt. He isn't wearing gloves, his fingers easily tugging apart the leather straps and letting the sword fall to the boards with a clatter.

It's tempting to meet him halfway, but it's more tempting to simply watch him undress. There was no time last night for it, no time to let her eyes lazily sweep across him and simply appreciate the taut muscle and smooth skin hidden beneath all that leather and wool.

It's not a power play like it was once before, when a man slipped into her bedroom late at night and she ordered him to undress while she watched. This is pure desire, a need to see every inch of flesh and muscle that makes Jon Snow who he is – an unconscious need to remind herself of every living, breathing inch of him.

He must see some reflection of her thoughts in her face, a flicker of confusion and doubt quickly replaced by a gleam of anticipation and lust. He flushes under her inspection, but he continues removing his clothes until the last bit of fabric has fallen to the floor.

Her pulse pounding, Daenerys leaves her chair, tugging at her robe and letting it fall open as Jon pushes it off her shoulders. His hands are cold on her skin, but she doesn't mind, shivering as her pulls her into his arms and kisses her.

It's not the kiss she expects. It isn't a kiss from a man thinking only of a night or two, but something deeper. It's a promise, and she almost pulls away, almost throws him out before this can get any worse, but the words die before they even reach her lips.

Later, she tells herself. She'll deal with the consequences later. They'll deal with Winterfell later, and his family, and the alliance, and the Night King, and Cersei. All of it. _Later_.

Now she doesn't want to think about anything except the way it feels when his hands move across her body. His fingers dance down her back, over her hips, along the backs of her thighs, and then he's lifting her easily, moving toward her bed as the ship sways around them.

"There's something I've been meaning to do," he begins as he sets her down, and she's too surprised to bother hiding her exasperation. When his voice is low like it is now, each word scraping over his tongue and desire dark in his eyes, she doesn't want to talk.

"Not now." It's an order if she's ever given him one, her hands settling on his hips and tugging him closer. "It can wait."

But he resists her pull, dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed where she's sitting. His expression shifts, that earnest, idiotic honor stilling his features, and she's suddenly afraid of what he might say.

"You're my queen, Daenerys." Each word is quiet, intensely intentional, and though his hands remain still while he says it, though they're both naked and going to end up in her bed in very short order, there's something noble in him, that damned honor straightening his spine. "I bend the knee."

Her breath catches, not just because his thumbs are sliding up the insides of her thighs now that he's said it, but because he's looking at her like _that_. Whatever connection is between them, the last links settle into place, doors firmly closing on the past, and he's kneeling before her, but he's still King in the North, no matter what he says. He's her equal in a way that the men before him haven't been, and so when he goes to his knees for her, it means a great deal more than she wants to consider in that moment.

But this isn't the time to talk of allegiances or loyalties, oaths or vows, kings or queens. His hands tighten on her thighs, gently pushing them apart, and her breath falters as Jon bends his head, his breath warm on her skin.

Her fingers thread into his hair as his lips brush the thin, sensitive skin along the inside of her thigh, her grip tightening sharply as he moves higher with each maddening kiss, his tongue and teeth scraping over her as he settles his shoulders between her thighs. The soft scratch of his beard is a curious sensation, but then his tongue pushes inside her and Daenerys' eyes slam shut. Leaning back on her elbows, she sways with the rock of the ship, her hips straining against the hold he has on them as he alternates between a torturous tease and intense pressure.

She opens her eyes as one of his hands moves from her hip, and it's a struggle to focus through the haze of sensation as he drags his finger through the slick heat, not quite entering her. "Jon." It comes out harsh, half a threat, half a plea, and his eyes flick up towards her.

It's not hard to imagine how she looks in that moment, her body on display, her eyes likely dark with want. Her hair is already tangled, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, but she doesn't care. In this moment, it isn't about maintaining a straight spine or power or any of it. It's just the two of them, the things they do to each other, and her bed. It's the heat boiling over in his eyes, so dark they appear black at that moment.

He holds her stare for another breath, then drops his eyes and closes his mouth over her, sucking hard while his fingers push inside her. It's almost too much, sensation overwhelming her and her back arching, but then it all crashes down in a wave of pure pleasure.

Daenerys is still struggling to breathe when she tugs Jon onto the mattress with her, and for a moment she lays beside him, the world soft around the edges. He lays next to her, quiet despite his own obvious desire, dragging his fingers over her ribs and belly, dipping along the curve of her waist, his thumb grazing her breast.

She glances over at him, watches as he wipes at his mouth and glistening beard with the back of his hand. Fire lives in his eyes when they meet hers, molten and enticing, and she rolls easily to stretch over him. When she kisses him, it's got an edge to it, a needy, desperate edge where he grabs her hips, holding her to him.

Slick as she is, it's a matter of tilting her hips to guide him, and he releases her as she sits up, taking him deep and stilling, savoring the rush of sensations. She begins to move slowly, leaning back to rest her hands on his thighs, rocking with the ship and his thrusts beneath her. When she glances down, his eyes are closed, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, every muscle in his chest taut and rippling with each tilt of their hips.

But as though he senses her watching, his lashes blink open, and there it all is again. Everything she's been warned this man might feel for her, everything she's wanted despite her best efforts not to. He's likely the only man who's ever come close to understanding her, who's _tried_ to understand her first as a woman and second as a queen.

She bends to kiss him again, and his hands tangle in her hair, unraveling the braids until her hair falls like a curtain of winter moonlight around them. He sits up with her in his arms, his breath stuttering as she shifts in his lap. It's all intimacy in that moment, their bodies too close for hard thrusts, and she really shouldn't allow this, this rocking together and losing herself in this man, but she doesn't care. Jon holds her like a precious treasure, his callused palm cupping her jaw, his other hand sprawled across her lower back.

Until it's too much. It's too close. Too intimate. Too much like he's cracked open his ribs and offered her a place there, as though she can slip her fingers inside that livid scar over his heart and feel every beat. She never asked for this, doesn't want it, and she rolls onto her back, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his ass, urging him on. Harder, faster, until what they're doing can only be describing as fucking.

But after, after he's collapsed beside her panting, after he's gotten out of bed for a damp rag to clean them both, after he's gathered her into his side beneath the furs as the swells rise, he still kisses her sweetly. He still runs his fingers through her unbound hair, gently combing the snarls free. Try as she might to find the willpower to send him away, her palm rests possessively on his chest, her body curling into his, and Daenerys begins to understand just how high the stakes have grown.

"You told me he got carried away," she says quietly, her fingertip brushing the edge of the scar high on his chest. It's a dark topic to bring into her bed, but she has to know, has to hear it from his lips. She's asked this question twice now, once of Tyrion, once of Jon himself, but she has yet to get a clear answer, despite the evidence that tells the truth of it, a truth she's known since the moment she saw the scars. "Davos, when he said you took a knife to the heart. He said you died."

He's silent for a long time, his fingers still moving through her hair, his heartbeat still steady under her touch, but when he speaks, a certain grimness lives in his words. "He shouldn't have told you. It's not a bargaining chip, what happened."

"What, exactly, happened?"

Jon's body tenses under hers, and she can feel the effort it takes him to relax again, the deliberate easing of each muscle, but his fingers tighten in her hair and don't let go. "I did what needed to be done. I knew they'd hate me. I didn't imagine they'd murder me for it." He laughs, a bitter, angry noise. "He told me to kill the boy. 'Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.' Maybe he knew more than he let on."

A chill settles into her bones at the words, the certainty of them. The finality. "Who?" she asks carefully, not entirely sure she wants to hear the answer.

"Maester Aemon." Jon's grip on her hair loosens, his fingers weaving through the silky strands. "He was a Targaryen. I wish you could have met him."

Her chest tightens at the revelation, the loss in Jon's voice fresh enough to tell her she's very narrowly missed meeting her last living relative. It's enough to steal her breath momentarily, the yearning for family flaring up with a strength she'd thought time would have diminished. There's respect in Jon's voice, respect and affection mingled with heart wrenching loss, and she knows that whoever the maester was, he was neither cruel nor stupid as her brother, the only other Targaryen she's known.

She reminds herself she doesn't need Targaryens now. She can be the last. She has dragons for children.

There's more she wants to ask, more to understand about how it is that he died at the hands of men he trusted, how he came _back_ , but here he is, warm and living beneath her. Threads of stories dangled in his words, but for tonight, what he's said must be enough. It's obvious Jon cared for the maester, that there is much, much more to whatever conversation he's quoting, but she can also hear the betrayal, the pain of much deeper wounds he plainly doesn't wish to speak of.

She reaches for his free hand, twisting their fingers together, and doesn't ask again.


	3. Chapter 3

They don't talk much on the ship.

That is to say, they don't talk when they're alone. They don't talk about _them_ , whatever it is that's going on. They don't talk about what happens when they arrive at Winterfell, what they'll tell the northern lords, what they'll tell Jon's family.

They don't talk about the wars that came before them, about the role his father played in seeing her family cut down, about the men her father burned. They don't talk about what happened beyond the Wall.

They don't talk about children, or witches, or husbands.

But those things live between them, tangible ghosts curling up on their pillows, slipping between their tangled legs and grasping fingers. She catches Jon looking at her sometimes, his brow furrowed, worry and doubt and shame cluttering his thoughts. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her what it is that slinks around inside his mind, but she sees it, and she knows.

Sometimes, afterwards, when they lay together listening to the waves and the creaking of the boards, he rests on his side, his palm on her belly, fingers tracing idle patterns, and she doesn't have to ask. It isn't hard to put two and two together – his inexperience and the way the word _bastard_ follows him around. He grew up in a mighty house. He could have easily made his way through any number of women, but it's plain he hasn't. She isn't the first. She can tell that much, but there haven't been many before her. One, if she had to guess by the shadows in his eyes when he thinks she isn't looking.

The last night on the ship, she asks, "Who was she?"

The question surprises him, and he sits up, pushing his hair away from his face and glancing down at her with a furrowed brow. He starts to speak, but then stops, and she thinks maybe he won't answer. That he'll brush it off in that way he has, where he won't lie, but he won't really reveal anything of himself either. Jon Snow is a master at hiding his true feelings when he chooses to, a man who was once a boy who knew when it was best to keep out of sight.

"Her name was Ygritte," he finally says, leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes, the pain of the memories aging him, his soft lips a hard line. Daenerys draws the furs around herself, sitting beside him, but careful not to let their skin touch. She hadn't meant to cause him pain – curiosity, and maybe a little bit of jealousy fueled the question – but it's plain whatever happened, his scars run deep.

"She was a wildling. I… it shouldn't have happened." He swallows hard, and he looks at her helplessly, a storm of loss churning in his dark eyes. "I broke my vow in being with her." His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug that says more than he ever will, glancing out the dark windows – as though he doesn't quite know how to explain what happened with that woman. As though a part of him still loathes that he was with her, despite what he obviously felt for her. All that honor, twisted up in grief and a simmering anger he can't quite hide as he says, "She died at Castle Black."

"You loved her."

"Yes." He's watching her warily as she moves closer, one hand reaching out to trace the scar running over his eye. Daenerys doesn't say anything else in that moment – what is there to say? She asked a question and got an answer, but the answer is far more than she bargained for. Especially when he adds very quietly, "We love who we love."

His palm rises, cupping her jaw, and when he looks at her like that, she knows. So she nods ever so slightly, and she kisses him, because her eyes are burning and she will not cry in this moment. She hates crying, hates to show that level of weakness to anyone, even Jon, but she needs him all the same. Needs to feel his lips moving under hers, needs the damp heat of his breath on her skin, needs the honesty of his body, his hoarse voice mumbling her name.

Letting the furs drop to her hips, she throws one leg over his, her knees sinking into the mattress around him. The kiss is slow, meandering as he cups her cheeks in his palms. His touch is gentle, as though she's something fragile and precious, but his lips and teeth respond to her with all the assurance that she's not about to break in his arms. The two sides of him, warrior and lover, all contained in one kiss.

"You're a good man, Jon Snow," she whispers against his lips, her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

He shakes his head in silent disagreement, but he doesn't argue with her, not now when he's hard against her stomach, her breasts pressing against his scars. He just keeps kissing her, a man gasping for breath surrounded by flames.

Jon kisses her, his mouth on hers, beard scraping against her cheeks, as she reaches between them, guides him into her. His kiss falters as she sinks down, his breath stuttering as she swallows the low groan he lets loose. Daenerys stills in his arms, their eyes meeting again, and there's nothing she can say to him then, no words that will do. Her speeches aren't romantic. She is ruthless and hard and demands much of those who love her. But Jon doesn't look at her like he expects anything at all. The boy was born in summer, but winter has already sunk its icy claws into the man.

They breathe together, one breath, then another, but it's too intense. When Jon looks at her like that, she's vulnerable in a way she doesn't want to be. He can see too much of her, understand too much, and so she rolls her hips forward and buries her face in his neck.

But he understands that too.

His hands move gently over her body, stroking and soothing. Not a practiced, sensual caress, but comforting. She can't help but think of him touching Drogon, the awe and fear mingling in his eyes, and she wonders if that's how he sees her. Terrifying and beautiful, powerful and brutal. She's seen it in him before, uncertain how he feels when faced with her ruthless streak, but he's still here.

He still loves her.

Her nails dig into his shoulders as she pulls back, uses the leverage to lift herself and grind down. She grabs his hand, guiding it to her breast, her fingers over his long enough to show him what she wants. She's not in the mood for gentle – she's not in the mood for Jon to temper any of his strength. She's seen him wield a sword. She knows beneath all the honor and vows and idiotic bravery is a wolf with fangs. That's what she wants.

A man strong enough to stand beside her. A man not afraid of her.

He learns quickly. The mood between them shifts, slow, rhythmic movements giving way to the snapping of hips and the drag of teeth. But in the end, even as he presses her hands into the pillows, their fingers are laced tightly together, and when he chokes out her name, the syllables might as well be three devastating words.

-x-

It snows the day they meet the Dothraki and Unsullied on the road, the great horde of people and horses dotted with fires and tents as far as the eye can see. It's a relief in some sense to be back among that great mass of people, to know that thousands of men stand between them and their enemies while they sleep, but it's also a reminder of all that just might drive them apart.

Her mood turns irritable as advisors parade in and out of her tent. There's plans to make now, orders to give. It's not possible to move this many people north, especially not this many people not used to the cold, without a great deal of work. The logistics of it are a nightmare, and she could easily make it someone else's problem, but that's never been her way. These are her people, and she'll see to it that they're safe.

Missandei stays at her side, and together, they manage to work through the endless tasks of supply distribution and organizing the mass of people. She hasn't seen Jon since they rode into camp, and she hates that she looks up every time someone enters the tent, wondering if it's him. Hoping it's him.

As the night grows dark, fires flare into life around them, the scent of roasting meat and woodfire filling the crisp air. The only time she's seen snows like this before are when she went north of the wall, and there was no room then to admire the beauty of it, the bite in the air. It's been a long summer, and she a ruler of desert cities, but as the snow falls around them, another piece of Jon becomes clearer to her.

She thinks back to the day they met, Davos' simple _he's King in the North_ against all her titles. It had pleased her then, the long list Missandei slowly let fill the echoing chamber and his fumbling reply. He hadn't been a king in that moment, staring helplessly back at Davos. She'd seen the almost desperate look, the plea to say something, anything, to make him worthy in her eyes.

He'd wanted so badly to make a good impression, for her to believe him, but when she hadn't, when she'd offered him scorn, he'd lost his temper. Then he'd been a king. Then he'd said what needed saying, damn the consequences. He doesn't have patience for politics, this man of snow and ice and cold winter nights.

Lost in thought as she is, she almost doesn't notice when Missandei presses a mug of spiced, hot wine into her hands. She smiles her thanks, taking a tentative sip and then another.

Missandei shivers, tugging her cloak tighter as she sips her own wine, and they share a sympathetic smile. It grows colder and colder with each passing day, the heat of Meereen and the sun-warmed pyramid terrace so distant it seems like a dream. "You will be warm enough in the tent?" she asks Daenerys, laughter in her words as one of her delicately arched brows raises and a sly, knowing smile curves her lips. "Not that I suppose you'll be alone."

"No more than you."

Missandei does laugh then, but her brows furrow, and she turns serious as she takes another slow sip of the mulled wine. "He is… not like other men. Lord Snow."

"No, he is not." It's an inadequate response, but she doesn't have words to put to exactly what Jon Snow is. Yes, he's brave, _too_ brave perhaps, and he's loyal. He's intelligent, and he's excellent with his sword. But there's something else, a look in his eye, a weight to his touch, that she can't quite define.

"The alliance… It is dangerous to care for political allies, your Grace." Missandei studies her carefully, as though weighing what she wants to say, but then sighs quietly. "You said when we left Meereen you may need to marry here, into one of the great houses. Is that what you intend to do with Lord Snow?"

The question doesn't surprise her. Honestly, she's been wondering when someone would bring it up, the idea of marrying Jon Snow. On its face, it isn't a terrible thought. It would certainly solve some of their problems quite neatly. The Starks and the Targaryens were allies for centuries. She'd pointed that out to him that first day at Dragonstone, and offered to restore him then as Warden of the North. Lord of Winterfell.

But the more she gets to know him, the more she wonders if he even wants any of it. She'd accused him of pride, once, thinking that was what prevented him from simply bending the knee and having done with it. It didn't make sense to her why he wouldn't. It was obvious even then that he respected her, perhaps had even begun to care for her. There was wonder in his eyes when he'd shown her the drawings in the cave, and when he'd taken her by the arm to guide her, his body close to hers, a low burn had ignited in her blood.

It hadn't been about him at all. It'd been about his damn vows again, this time to his people. Promises he'd made, promises in the end he'd found a way to reconcile. Bending the knee to Daenerys meant an army to defend the north from the dead. Bending the knee to Daenerys meant an ally against Cersei Lannister.

She'd told him once that all people enjoy what they're good at. _I don't_ , he'd said, and there hadn't been time to ask what he meant. She hadn't _wanted_ to ask then, hadn't wanted to open that door. But now that she's seen him in the midst of battle, his sword flashing with deadly accuracy and grace, she's begun to understand.

He doesn't want to be king. He doesn't want any of it. Not the politics, not the court maneuvers, not the war or the bloodshed or the power.

But he does want her.

"Your Grace?"

Daenerys shakes herself out of her thoughts, lifting her eyes from their unseeing stare into her wine to look at Missandei. She smiles ruefully, taking another sip of the hot, spicy drink and shrugging her shoulders inelegantly. "Perhaps."

"I apologize, your Grace. I did not intend to-"

"It's all right," Daenerys cuts in, waving off the apology. "It's a fair question, but we have no time for those sorts of concerns. The Night King is a different sort of enemy. We can worry about the seven kingdoms once the dead aren't marching against us all."

"Yes, your Grace."

Missandei leaves eventually, and the camp settles into the night, but Jon doesn't come. She tells herself she isn't waiting up for him, that she doesn't expect him to walk in at any moment. He never needed an invitation the week they spent on the ship. After that first night, he'd simply returned every night after.

So where is he tonight?

She doesn't enjoy being left to wait, and as the night deepens, her temper flares. The logical assurances she gives herself don't soothe as they ought – there's plenty for him to do in a camp like this, orders to give, men to oversee. He knows this land. He knows where to direct men for water, where to set up the cook fires, all the practical necessities. He's a military man in a military camp. This isn't the ship, where there's precious little for him to do other than satisfy his own needs with her.

But what of her needs? Jon has found a way under her skin, has left her craving him – not just the pleasure of his body, but the quietness of him, the stillness he gives her mind. Oh, it's complicated between them, the politics of it, the consequences of it, but it's also the simplest thing in her life. In her bed, Jon is just a man who wants her as a woman, who unravels her braids and lays her bare.

Tonight, she hates him for it. Hates him for the way she feels alone in her tent, hates him for the doubts his absence spurns. Hates him for rattling her, for giving her a taste of what it might be like if she could no longer have him.

Hates him for making her realize just how deeply he's burned into her bones.

It's not so much a decision as simply putting one foot in front of the other, her boots crunching through the snow. It's still falling, the flakes melting in her hair and on her face, icy and biting as the rising wind. The savage beauty of it, of this land, only fuels her anger. It's so different from everything she's ever known – _he's_ so different. She doesn't know how to prepare for this, for winter, for the Night King.

Jon knows how to fight them. Jon knew about the dragonglass. Jon went north of the Wall on his brave, idiotic mission, and he came back. He faced down the army of the dead for a second time and lived to tell of it. She needs him by her side. She needs him to help her do this, because she can't do it by herself.

Davos is walking away from Jon's tent as she approaches, the distant howls of wolves singing across the snows. His expression is haunted, but he manages a smile when he meets her eyes, stopping briefly. "He's in a fine mood," the old sailor tells her with a weary shake of his head. "Anxious to be at Winterfell, if you ask me. This racket isn't helping."

"Racket?"

"The wolves." He shivers as a lone howl picks up again, mournful and ghostly on the wind. "I'll never forget the sound of a direwolf howling, your Grace. The morning I found him, his wolf…" Davos stops, remembering himself, and pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders with a wry chuckle. "Direwolves and dragons. The bloody grumpkins and snarks might be real, too." He shakes his head, nodding to her as he goes. "Goodnight, your Grace."

"Goodnight, Ser Davos." It's an automatic reply, the words flowing from her lips even as she continues on toward Jon's tent, the direwolf pennant snapping in the wind. She thinks of Drogon shrieking from the sky when she stood in the center of the fighting pit, thinks of his killing rage as he'd somehow perceived the threat against her. Had Jon's wolf known his master had been betrayed? Had he too raged against the men that sought to do him harm?

She finds Jon cleaning his sword, mouth pressed into a hard line and brow furrowed. The blade gleams in the lantern light, already clean, but he doesn't pause in his methodical polishing until he realizes she's there. He looks up then, still wearing his heavy furs, and sheaths the sword as he stands.

But he doesn't say anything, and neither does she. They simply stare at each other across the empty tent, her anger rattling its chain. She wants to lash out at him, wants to cut him down and demand he explain what he's doing hiding in his tent, but the words don't come. Another howl, muffled by the heavy fabric, calls through the night, and Jon's jaw clenches.

"You're avoiding me," she finally says, fighting to keep it from being an accusation. The words come out cold, but she doesn't apologize.

He shrugs, though his hands clench tightly at his sides. "I'm poor company this evening."

"I don't care." One step toward him, then another. "We agreed to do this together."

"We did, but…" He shakes his head, glancing down at his cloak, and then back at her. She's close enough for him to touch, but he doesn't, his eyes dark and brooding. "My sister made me this cloak. 'Like the one Father wore,' she said when she gave it to me. He was a good man, an honorable man. He never treated me differently, the constant reminder of his broken vows. Robb is gone, and the North looks to me now." He's very young when says it, and her temper cools as she listens to him, caught in a misery of his own endless guilt. "I don't want it, Dany. I'm tired of fighting. All I've done for years is fight. The things I've done…"

He probably doesn't even realize he's called her _Dany_ again, but a small thrill runs down her spine. It's the first time he's said it when they're not in bed together, since she told him about her brother, but she doesn't correct him now, either. On his lips, it's not so much the condescending words of a brother who thought her stupid and good for little more than a bargaining chip. It's intimate and quiet, a private set of syllables that are another rung in the ladder she's climbing to reclaim every inch of herself.

She'll be damned if she'll let him cut himself down in front of her.

"We've all done terrible things." Taking the last step to bring them toe to toe, her hand raises to rest on his jaw. Jon leans into her touch, turning to brush his lips against the inside of her wrist. Her hands are cold without gloves, his skin hot and soft, and she shivers. "We do what's necessary."

"There was a man… a traitorous bastard. He raped my sister. Did unspeakable things to her." He swallows hard, demons wrestling in his eyes as he holds himself still beside her. "He deserved to die. He deserved everything that happened to him, but the person I became…" He shakes his head, stepping away from her. "I want to do better. I want to be better, not more of the same."

The words echo back to her, and if she closes her eyes, they'll be on the beach at Dragonstone once more, his honest answer the exact thing she'd needed to hear in that moment. "I have taken pleasure in vengeance," she tells him, her back straight and no shame in her voice. "I make no apologies for it, and neither should you. But this isn't about vengeance."

"Sometimes strength is terrible?" Jon repeats her words back to her, sharp and biting, tinged in despair, but a question. He's different here, back in his own land, on the road to his home. History sits heavily on his shoulders, reminders of the things he's done, the person he's been. She's tired of this argument, but she's always had a tender heart beneath her armor, and Jon's slumped shoulders tug at her. He isn't like her – hasn't had to watch for a knife in his back since before he knew how to open his eyes. He's fought, she knows he's fought, but not in the way she has.

He's learned to do what's necessary, not how to live with himself for it.

But people expect men to be strong, especially Stark men. No one questions their ability or right to command. No one has looked at Jon Snow with a gleam in their eyes as they contemplated the highest bidder. No one sold him off to be raped and called it marriage. His strength isn't like hers, steel forged from being bent and broken over and over.

"Yes. It is. But you are not. _We_ are not," she says firmly. It should bother her more, these doubts of his, but it doesn't. She thinks of Daario, always so eager to deal out death. He enjoyed what he was good at.

He wasn't a king.

"We fed him to his dogs." Rage lashes through the words, rage and shame, but no regret. It's why he's ashamed. She's all but certain of it, that he abhors the man who allowed such a brutal impulse to slip its leash. "It was her decision, but I allowed it. I helped make it happen."

She thinks of her brother, all those years ago. _I would let his whole tribe fuck you. All 40,000 men and their horses too, if that's what it took._ It's tempting to tell Jon of it, to watch the rage rise in his cheeks, to see for her own eyes how different he is. Jon worries over losing his humanity in the face of an insult to his sister, worries that the savagery it brought out in him makes him less honorable, but he doesn't know. He can't know that after a brother such as hers, there is nothing Jon could do in defense of his family that would make him lesser in her eyes.

Daenerys doesn't say any of that. The wounds have healed, but the scars remain. She doesn't wish to slash them open tonight, so she simply says, "Good."

"Good?"

She nods, sliding her hand under his cloak and resting it on his chest. "You gave her back power," she tells him quietly, wanting to look away but forcing herself to keep hold of his tortured eyes. "Evil men deserve to die. Men who hurt women for the pleasure of it deserve to die." She waits a beat, waits to be sure he's heard her, to be sure he understands – whatever snapping beast lives beneath his skin, whatever he's afraid of unleashing in her sight, she isn't afraid.

Then, "Tell me about your wolf. Why didn't you bring him to Dragonstone?"

It has the desired effect. Jon smiles, that hint of a smile that shows more in his eyes than on his lips, and some measure of tension goes out of him. "I couldn't be certain you'd spare me from the dragons. Didn't see any reason to offer them Ghost too."

She laughs quietly, his easy humor still a surprise in the midst of what they're facing. He'd made her laugh in the dragon pit too, lightened her heart when it seemed all was lost. "I wasn't going to feed you to the dragons."

"I seem to recall a bit of dragon threatening." He raises one eyebrow at her, melancholy replaced by a teasing gleam. "Did you see three dragons?" he asks, his voice pitched slightly higher, his attempt at a haughty tone ruined by the laughter threatening its edges.

"You were rather annoying."

"Me?" He shakes his head, but his arms loop easily around her, affection growing in each word. "You refused to listen. All you wanted was to intimidate me into bending the knee."

"Perhaps." She leans back in his arms, tracing the direwolf sigil on his chest. "You might have been more intimidating with the wolf beside you."

"To the mother of dragons? Hardly." He glances down, following the pattern she draws over the wolf heads gathered on his chest. "Besides, Ghost wouldn't do well on a ship. He makes men uneasy."

"But not you?"

"No. He's saved my life." The howls rise again, deep and mournful in the night, and Daenerys leans her cheek against Jon's leather-clad chest, his fingers coming to rest in her hair. She only hastily braided the long mass of it before seeking him out, and it's already coming undone. Still, his touch feels good, soothing as he gently tugs the braid apart. "He's at Winterfell, or should be. I wouldn't be surprised if he finds his way to our camp before we make it there."

"With all these men?"

Jon laughs, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "In these snows, he'll be hard to spot. He's pure white, and he's good at not being seen when he doesn't wish to be." He speaks fondly of the wolf, affectionate and amused by the antics of the animal he obviously loves. It's how she speaks of the dragons – how anyone would speak of their unruly child.

 _Did it occur to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information?_

Daenerys shivers in his arms, the memory striking ruthlessly at her unguarded heart. Jon would be a good father, not mad like hers. He'd be affectionate and kind, generous in the way his father was. He deserves children, trueborn children that will never know what it is to be a bastard, to be shamed their entire lives by their names for the mistakes of their parents.

But she remembers that witch, remembers agreeing to pay her price. If she were able to have children, wouldn't it have happened by now? It didn't take long with Drogo. She didn't take measures to prevent it with Daario. Didn't believe there was a reason to. In the months in Meereen, she was with him countless times, and never had there been the slightest sign she might have been carrying a child.

No, there's no reason to believe that Jon's words might have any truth behind them. It's a foolish hope, anyway, and the challenges they face are difficult enough. There's no time now, no room for fanciful, hopeless dreams in which the future holds family, and stability, and snug, cozy nights. Their future is blood and war and ice and fire.

So she banishes the thought, tucks it away in the recesses of her mind, and kisses him, because whatever the future brings, the only thing certain in that moment is that Jon is here, and he is flesh and bone, and he is breathing. He is hers. She is his. Tonight, they belong only to each other.


	4. Chapter 4

They're a day's ride from Winterfell when Daenerys blinks awake to find two bright, burning red eyes regarding her in silent evaluation. Behind her, Jon stirs without waking. Sometime in the night his arm ended up around her waist, and it tightens slightly, his skin warm on hers, but then he settles.

"Hello," she says quietly into the watery morning light. The wolf's ears stand at attention, alert, intelligence burning in the strange eyes. Solid white and massive, he doesn't move, his eyes fixed on her. Even as Jon sighs behind her, Ghost doesn't shift his attention. Watching the wolf carefully, Daenerys can't help but wonder if this is an intentional meeting, his master slumbering behind her – a chance for Ghost to evaluate her and determine if she's left wanting. If she's good enough.

The thought gives her pause. It's not a question she's used to humoring, even when it comes to Jon. It isn't a question of being good enough for him, or him being good enough for her. She knows the kind of man he is. She's made no attempt to hide herself from him, and he's still here, so he must know who she is.

But Ghost doesn't.

Slowly, Daenerys draws her hand from beneath the furs. It's cold in the tent with the fires burned low, but cozy with Jon's naked skin against hers, she barely feels it. Ghost regards her outstretched hand silently, not shying away as she gets closer, but not exactly welcoming her either.

He simply watches her.

Yet when her hand finally sinks into the mass of his soft fur, he leans into her touch, a silent request for more. How like Jon, she muses, very much aware of the man at her back as she scratches behind Ghost's massive ears. Not a word spoken, and yet she feels as though she knows exactly what the wolf wants from her in that moment – affection he won't ask for, doesn't want to admit he desires, but craves all the same.

How simple things seem for those few breaths, dragging her nails lightly down Ghost's neck, the wolf quiet and still under her gentle touch. In the soft grey of morning, with Jon's breathing deep and even behind her, and the massive direwolf calm beneath her fingers, there's no reason to imagine a great storm brewing on the edge of the world. No reason to remind herself that this is rare moment of peace before it arrives, a moment where the seven hells still hold their devils.

Yet the devils are coming. The wights and the walkers and the grumpkins and the snarks. Direwolves and dragons.

Winter is here, and the long night marches south for them all.

Daenerys unclenches her fingers with some effort, smoothing the ruffled fur back out as Ghost lowers his massive head to the edge of the camp bed. She misses the earlier days with the dragons in that moment, misses it fiercely. Drogon would never tolerate these sorts of ministrations, wouldn't fit in the tent these days. It almost seems a shame to keep this moment to herself, to not wake Jon and reveal Ghost's presence, but he needs his sleep. Someone will be along for them eventually. If she can afford him another hour, that's what she'll do.

They were up late into the night, first poring over maps of the north and discussing the Wall's defenses. After the others had left Jon's tent, she'd lingered, and he'd told her about how he came to be at the Wall. He spoke of a Samwell Tarley with such affection and warmth she longs to meet the man Jon respects so, even if she does suspect he may be related to the men she'd roasted on the field of Lannisters. He sounds nothing like those others, so she said nothing in the moment. But Jon also told her of other men, and though he didn't speak of the night that earned him a chest full of scars, his voice darkened and his words grew sharper until he'd fallen silent, brooding.

Perhaps she should have left him to his thoughts, but they haven't spent a night apart since he came to her on the ship. So she'd coaxed him into her arms, distracted him with pleasure. After, he'd lain curled onto his side beside her, his breathing slowing as she'd dragged her fingers through his loosened hair, and she'd asked herself just what it is they're doing.

She'd never loved Daario. Even before she'd walked away feeling nothing, she'd known it wasn't love. He'd been what she needed at the time – someone she could manipulate, someone she could rule, someone to keep her bed warm. She'd used him, and perhaps known some small affection for him, but it wasn't love.

Drogo was more complicated. She had loved him, but despite everything he gave her in the end, despite knowing that he loved her as deeply and thoroughly as any man has loved a woman by the time he died, none of that could ever erase their beginning. How many nights had he raped her? How many nights had she cried silent tears as he'd taken her as he would have taken a slave? He'd learned before long, learned because she did from another slave, but that love would forever be tainted by those early, humiliating, wretched nights. A part of her would never be able to truly forgive him, even if his death gave her the dragons.

A warm, rough tongue on her hand draws her out of her thoughts, and Daenerys comes back to herself to realize Ghost is licking her still outstretched hand. He's enormous, but gentle, and Jon stirs awake at her quiet laugh of delight.

"Making friends, are you?" His voice is rough with sleep, his northern accent thick and rumbling, but there's no mistaking the happiness of it. She hasn't heard that in his voice yet, the almost childlike pleasure with which he speaks, and she's not even sure if he's talking to her or the direwolf. But he presses closer, his arm flexing to pin her against his torso, his mouth on her shoulder in an openmouthed kiss that vibrates with a low, contented noise from deep in his chest. She's grown used to Jon early in the morning like this, half-asleep and affectionate, not yet fully alert to the burdens of the day, and she longs to sink into his arms and forget herself for a few more minutes.

Beside them, the wolf whines, sitting back on his haunches and looking at his master expectedly. Jon sighs against her skin, stretching to steal one more kiss from her lips before pushing himself onto an elbow to address the piercing red stare. "You were supposed to wait at Winterfell," he tells the starkly white creature, his attempt at a scolding making her bite her tongue to contain her laughter. "Might you have at least waited another five minutes before barging in?"

The wolf tilts his head, regarding them both with what she swears is amusement before walking to the corner of the tent. There he curls himself into a white ball of fur, his tail sweeping over his snout as he settles with a huff of warm breath.

"Ghost approves," Jon tells her as he leans down to kiss her, slipping beneath the furs into the cradle of her parted thighs in a lazy slide of his body over hers. He's relaxed in a way she hasn't seen before, as though having the wolf nearby settles him as Drogon settles her.

"That's awfully kind of him." Sliding her palms over his shoulders, Daenerys draws Jon closer, the cool air slipping into the space between their bodies as the furs fall to his hips. He hums a low sort of agreement, his fingers delving into her hair as his thumb sweeps over her brow.

He doesn't say anything right away, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks down at her. It's still early, the sun barely beginning to rise, and the camp remains quiet. It won't be long before the armies stir, the cook fires prodded into life, the din of thousands of voices surrounded them, but not yet.

"How did he come to be with you?" Daenerys asks, her voice little more than a whisper. She's loathe to break this peace, this unexpected sliver of ease and calm in the midst of so much struggle, but the silence grows too heavy without words. Too intense.

Too likely that Jon may choose to break it in a way she wishes he wouldn't.

The question works. Jon's expression shifts, a corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile. "We found their mother with the five pups that went to my siblings." His eyes darken, the smile dropping abruptly. "It's how I convinced my father to keep them when Greyjoy would have seen them dead. Five direwolf pups for the five Stark children."

"And Ghost?"

"The runt of the litter, if you believe it looking at him now. They'd left him to die." Jon glances over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the wolf as he adds, "He wasn't like the rest of them."

"But still family." The last word nearly sticks in her throat, the old longing rising sharp and brittle on her lips. "Still family," she repeats fiercely, digging her nails into his shoulders as he meets her stare. It's as much to remind him that the Starks are his family as it is to banish her own foolish sentimentality. The old doubts linger in the depths of his eyes, and she wills him to move past them. To accept his name, his birthright, his siblings.

Daenerys ignores her own wishes. That path is closed to her now. No sense in dwelling on what may have been.

"Still family," he echoes, the ease of only moments earlier vanished. His jaw has gone hard as the ice and mountains of the north when she presses her fingers against it, guiding his mouth toward hers.

A part of her is angry, angry that he should even think to doubt his family when he still has one. She has no family, has _had_ no family but the brother who sold her. Daenerys has made a family with the dragons, has found people who serve her from love in their hearts rather than coin in their purses, but it isn't the same. It isn't two sisters and a brother in an ancestral home, waiting with fires laid.

She may have had her brother growing up, but Viserys' love came with a possessive, temperamental streak. He was never gentle with her without an ulterior motive, and despite Jon having spoken only briefly of his family, she knows it wasn't like that for him. Tyrion has told her a little – about the boy banned from his family's visit, angry and defiant in the cold night – but he also told her how close Jon was with his siblings.

If the maesters are to be believed, there's a bit of magic in her bond with the dragons. Magic and fire and blood. Those are her bonds, but Jon …

Is it magic that brought the great wolf bounding across the frozen north, deserting the great stone walls of Winterfell to seek out his master? Is it magic that causes Jon to smile fondly when someone mentions his sisters, to speak of Sansa with a proud undercurrent in every word. Or is it something else, some quality that is simply the result of family and love she's never known?

She'll meet his sisters soon enough. His brother too. All the people left behind Winterfell's ancient walls, those hard northern men and women who called Jon their king. Not in the way she's grown up believing in kings and queens, by birthright and legacy, but by love. Honor. Faith. Respect. All the things she'll have to earn in this land, the things she can't buy with gold or demand with dragons, and Jon has them. Has them without even trying.

Perhaps that's why he can be freer with his affections. Perhaps that's why it seems so easy for him to lock arms with Davos, to brush his fingers against hers beneath a table in reassurance, while she still struggles with keeping her spine stiff and her emotions chained deep within.

"Dany?" Jon's thumb brushes against her lips, his brows furrowed as she realizes it's not the first time he's said her name. "What is it?"

For perhaps the first time in her life, she wants desperately to be wrong. She wants Jon's not so subtle insinuations to be right. She wants to have a family. She wants love. Her brother taught her that love and affection were weapons, that they would make her weak. Jon doesn't make her weak. _Jon_ isn't weak.

But it doesn't matter what she wants, what her entire being cries out for as he looks down at her with a bit of worry, his thumb still stroking her lips. Winter is here. War is coming. Whether the witch was right or Jon, it doesn't much matter with the long night slinking ever further south.

So she kisses him. Winds her fingers into his hair, tugs him closer, and keeps kissing him until they both forget for a few more minutes what waits for them beyond the Wall.


End file.
